Thursday, September 04, 2003


There’s hair at every turn in the cave, a light
waves at him form a formation of mangled cars
shaped like a lighthouse tower and with a restaurant
on the toppermost floor/car

Every room, every car that is, designed like a shape
from the past: here’s his mother with a thermometer,
his father crying in a Dodge Dart for no reason he can
discern. All of it blue and elementary.

Clocks are blind beasts here, they give only the merest
of information but demand complete attention. After
16 ticks they face each other and vibrate, a small dance
he wishes would silence the lamp’s drone.

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